Bar, strip club, bar, bar, bar, voodoo shop, cafe, bar, bar, bar, strip club, bar, restaurant, bar. Bourbon Street lay before us in all of its wet and well-tred glory. Throngs of partying pedestrians armed with grenades, and plastic cups spilled on to the streets. Music blared from every doorway. Buskers and brass-bands littered the sidewalks. We rolled down the road at barely 5 mph plodding through the foot and carriage traffic. Eyes wide and heads practically pressed against the window glass we were overstimulated and desperately searching for a place to park. It was all I could do to resist the urge not to run madly into the fray. This was Mecca, this was Valhalla, this was Babylon. I got my wish. The parking garage was cash only. Someone had to run out and hit up an ATM machine. “We’ll drive around the block and-” Our wheel-man Larry Sparrow never finished his sentence when the door slammed shut behind me. I ran into the fray, blending into the Bacchanalia.

We reconvened at the parking garage, Larry Sparrow sported an oversized sombrero. “Where did that come from?” I asked in wonderment.

“Over there.” He pointed to an empty parking spot.

“I love this place!” I still reeled from my solo excursion.

The three weary travelers clung to to the shadowed side of the street, shying away from the sun. We dodged and weaved winding our way through the thick pedestrian traffic. Multiple layers of music clamored in our ears. “Should we keep walking or-” Larry Sparrow never finished his sentence.

“Barrrrrgh” The two Curvy Dogs madly interrupted, we were perilously parched, wired tired and far too frazzled for senseless sober walking. Sadly, if we set out in costume, we would have never found refuge in the nearest drinking establishment, especially with Cininnati’s finest Captain Jack Sparrow impersonator in our midst. He’d be stormed by women in seconds. Suddenly swept up in a sea of screaming fans, followed by a flurry of photos. “Oh my god! It’s Johnny Depp!” they’d all shout while MAD and I would wait on the sidelines for the first wave to pass. Then we’d be free to take a couple of steps further before the second wave rolls in and so on.

Under-dressed and therefore unnoticed, we sidestepped inside as swiftly as possible . It took a couple of minutes adjust from the harsh light to the dark interior of The Funky Pirate. When I could see I couldn’t believe what I beheld. “Dollar shots! Of Pirate’s Revenge?!” There it was, an illuminated sign on the wall. A brilliant beacon beckoning us to drink.

As the afternoon wore on, this town looked more and more like a place I’d want to call home. Body and mind were greased and eased by live Delta River Blues, rum, gin, some sweet drink that Larry Sparrow sipped, and quite a few those vengeful grape-favored shooters. After an indeterminate amount of time, we landed once more on the street absolutely astonished to see the sun sink. “Dollar shots! Get your dollar shots of Pirates Revenge!” The day’s allotment of alcohol left our companion MAD harassing passers-by, brandishing the sign she stole from the guy whose job it was to sit outside the bar holding it. “Dollar shots! You know you want to drink them! You must!” She shouted like a pretzel vendor at a Ren Faire. Her enthusiasm was admirable. After about ten or so minutes of harassing and pulling patrons into the nearly empty bar, we made our weary weaving walk back to the parking garage. The bayou was waiting for us.

Hey, this isn’t that bad at all, I mused as I rolled out the bedrolls and settled into my tent for an early night. We had a long and work-filled day ahead of us; sleep was of the utmost importance. Luckily, the previous night’s panic and paranoia dissipated entirely. We survived the first full day. We were fine, and I laughed at myself for thinking otherwise.

“Listen to those animals,” I thought aloud hearing the bayou awaken. The still evening air filled with nature’s nocturnal cadence. All around us, beasts chuckled, chirped, and brushed up against the tent. The incessant high-pitched hum of a mosquito swarm and a chorus of coyotes resounded out of the darkness. “Listen to those animals…”